Fit to be Tied
by tsukinoblossom
Summary: Sherlock's undone bowtie prompts John to do something very inappropriate at a formal function


John gazes across the table, his eyes lingering on a deliciously creamy expanse of skin and tendon, interrupted by a few gorgeous and positively lickable freckles. They're framed by a crisp white shirt and a maddeningly undone black silk bowtie. He licks his lips and glares at the head atop the offending neck.

"Sherlock, for the last time, would you please do up your collar and tie?"

"Why does it matter so much to you, John? This party is dull, we're only here because Mycroft threatened to put a new camera in the flat and you know how creative he can be. Besides, it's bloody uncomfortable."

"I would…" John shifts in his seat, in his mind he's running his fingers along the hint of collarbone currently escaping Sherlock's shirt "appreciate it if you just stayed dressed up for once. It's improper and I'd like to impress Mycroft." Sherlock snorts and throws his head back, further exposing that ridiculous neck and causing the black silk bow tie to shift slightly. "John, don't be disingenuous, it doesn't suit you. You couldn't care less about impressing Mycroft right now. What is it about me having undone my tie that offends you?"

Sherlock stares inquisitively at John, his eyes looking celadon green and knife-sharp in the dim light of the ballroom. _Flush across his cheeks, pupils dilated, licking his lips more frequently than usual. Oh. __**Oh!**_ "Johnnn…" he draws the doctor's name out, reducing it to a mere hum in the back of his throat. "You naughty man."

"Alright, alright, you've figured it out, good on you. You just look so deliciously put together, and then you add in this one element of rumpled debauchery, it's incredibly distracting... I'm sitting in a ballroom in an ill-fitting tuxedo at and I'm at half-mast already. It's like my senior formal all over again."

The consulting detective gets up out of his chair and holds his hand elegantly out to the furiously blushing doctor. John glares up at him in return. "No, I am not getting up to dance, or to socialize, or to do whatever bloody awful thing you have in mind. I am sitting right here and thinking about dissecting corpses, about last week's football match, about Margaret bloody Thatcher until I am more suited for company. Now fuck off."

"John, you're so charming when you're frustrated, no wonder I'm smitten with you." Sherlock replies, but his sarcasm is softened by the affectionate undertone beneath it. "However, I had none of those things in mind. Except the fucking part… there is a disused supply closet just down the hall."

At the implication, the blood flow into John's groin redoubles and what was the beginnings of an erection is now well on its way to becoming a painful and throbbing problem. He feels as though he should argue but another glimpse of Sherlock's bobbing adam's apple perfectly framed by his collar and that damnable, infernal bowtie and all reason flies out the window. John suspects he'd fuck the man on the fine white linens of the dining table at this point, if he so much as insinuated he'd be keen. Looking around to make sure nobody's staring directly at them, he gets up and follows Sherlock out of the main ballroom. And if he just happens to be staring right at the taller man's wonderfully formed, ridiculously plush arse highlighted by a perfectly fitting pair of black trousers, so be it. He's going to hell; he may as well make the most of it on the way there.

"Sh'lock…" he whispers, rising up on his toes and leaning forward. "We're not… I mean, I don't… wasn't expecting this."

Sherlock spins on his heel, his face mere centimetres away from John's and the smile on his lips positively ferine. He holds up a condom packet and a small bottle of lubricant. "When have you ever known me to be anything less than prepared for any possible outcome?" John could probably think of more than a few occasions were his faculties not otherwise occupied, but right now his brain is sorely lacking in blood, and the only thing he can think to do with his lips is to press them firmly against Sherlock's before a greedy moan escapes them.

After what seems like a maddeningly long trek but is actually only a couple of minutes, Sherlock turns sharply to his left and pulls a lock-pick out of his pocket. Within a few seconds, the door springs open under his deft touch and he grabs John by the lapels, dragging him in before shoving the door shut firmly again.

John grabs him and pulls him down into another kiss, nipping Sherlock's lower lip firmly before forcing his tongue sharply into the detective's mouth. He reaches up and curls one hand gently around the expanse of neck that was so tempting him earlier, fingers tracing gently up into the mass of dark curls. Sherlock arches up against him, whimpering into the kiss as he coils his tongue around John's.

The good doctor breaks the kiss, only to attack that expanse of throat with a series of nips and licks, drawing the very tip of his tongue along the raised tendon, brought into sharp relief as Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and tosses his head back. When John reaches the hollow where his collarbones meet, he sucks deeply, leaving a vivid red mark that will deepen into a love-bite before long. "There, you insufferable sod. Now you'll _have_ to do your bowtie up when we leave. Either that, or deal with Mycroft's taunts."

"For the love of whatever gods you believe in, John, do not mention my damnable brother right now. I can think of a million things your tongue would be put to better use doing." As if to illustrate his point Sherlock grabs John, pulling him close and angling his hips downwards, grinding the heavy prominence forming between his legs against the shorter man. In turn, John tilts his face up, swollen lips searching for and finding Sherlock's in the dim light of the pantry. They fumble hungrily for a few moments, tongues entwined, lips finding teeth, and hands sliding up into jackets. John pulls Sherlock's off clumsily before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it up out of his trousers.

"Turn around, you great madman. You've been driving me mad with want all evening and I am going to fuck you senseless in here. I am going to pound into you so hard you won't be able to walk straight. I am going leave you a sticky, whimpering mess. Now turn around." Sherlock, for all of his ego and posturing, hasn't yet learned to resist John when he's in mouthy dirty army mode (nor would he really want to), and turns around obligingly while undoing his flies and letting his trousers drop smoothly to his knees. John unceremoniously dumps his own jacket to the floor alongside Sherlock's before hurriedly freeing his own cock, the head already glistening with pre-come. With a grunt, he grinds it against the soft black silk covering Sherlock's arse a few times before reaching around and thrusting a hand into his face.

"Nnngh, Sherlock.. lube. Now." Sherlock passes him the small bottle and packet, and in eager anticipation pulls down his pants and bends forward slightly, leaning on one of the shelving racks in the small room. John fumbles with the packet for a moment before managing to tear it open and sliding it eagerly onto his engorged cock. Quickly, he lubes himself up before bringing his hand to Sherlock's arse and sliding two slippery fingers down the cleft, gently pushing when he reaches the puckered circle of his anus. His free hand reaches down to brace himself against the rack. Impatient and demanding as always, Sherlock shoves his hips backwards, pressing himself urgently against John's hand.

John slides his middle finger deep into Sherlock, pulling in and out a few times and making sure he's well slicked before sliding a second in with practiced ease. Sherlock shudders, letting his head fall forward while curling his back and canting his hips up for a better angle. He's as close to desperate and uncontrolled as Sherlock Holmes ever is. "John, so help me if you don't put your cock inside me very soon I am going leave you locked in here for the hired help to find later, and I'm taking your trousers with me."

It's all the incentive John needs before he's pressing the slippery tip of his cock against Sherlock's anus. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself but gives it up as a lost cause and just slides himself into the tight heat in one solid, forceful thrust. Sherlock grips the shelf tighter and lets out a deep moan at the sudden sensation of fullness. Just before he has time to acclimatize himself, John pulls nearly all the way out until just the fat, swollen head is still inside Sherlock. The taller man feels wonderful around his shaft, and he wants this to last at least a few minutes so he's doing his best to take it slowly, but Sherlock is increasingly frantic and grinds himself against John in an attempt to impale himself on his prick. John releases his hold on the shelf and grips Sherlock by the hip instead, using him as leverage to thrust in deeply. His other hand, still slick with lubricant, moves around and grips the base of Sherlock's hot, heavy erection.

The consulting detective, usually so in control of his vocal faculties lets loose a strangled shout that curls right up John's spine and he finally starts fucking in earnest. Still fairly slow, but deep, powerful thrusts that shoot straight to the pleasure centres of Sherlock's glorious brain. With every thrust of John into Sherlock, his hand tightens and mirrors around Sherlock's own cock, his thumb gliding over the glans at the top of every stroke, smearing him with lube and pre-come.

It takes John a moment to realise that Sherlock is moaning, very very loudly, with each thrust. "Sherlock, god, be quiet. Someone's going to hear us." Not to mention that the sound's causing a tendril of heat to coil around his balls and up his spine, and if his infuriating lover doesn't _shut the hell up_ soon this is all going to be over in an alarmingly short time. Tauntingly, he yet again slides the shaft of his prick nearly entirely out of Sherlock, jerking his hips rapidly back and forth at the end so that just the head is teasing the opening of Sherlock's anus, over and over. Each time, the stunning genius lets out another shout, their increasing volume echoing in the tiny space.

"Sherlock", John emphasizes each word with an aggressive thrust of his hips and a tug of Sherlock's leaking cock in his hand "Shut. The. Hell. Up." The taller man manages to gasp in enough breath to utter two simple words.

"Make me"

With that, John buries his entire length and girth deep into Sherlock, balls slapping against him. He lets go of the firm grip on his angular hipbone, refusing to break his other hand's contact with his cock. He reaches up, gently caressing Sherlock's elegant and now very flushed neck before grabbing one end of the undone bowtie and pulling it from around his neck. Never once relenting in his deep and thorough fucking of Sherlock's arse, he balls up the bowtie and gently shoves it into Sherlock's mouth, effectively muffling the noise he's making.

"I am going to make you come all over my hand, and you're going to shout into that thing and nobody's ever going to find out."

With that, he tightens his grip on Sherlock, tugging in earnest and adding a slight twist of his wrist at the top of every slide of his hand. He can feel a familiar tightening of his balls, a tension in his abdomen as Sherlock clenches down around his cock but he puts it out of his mind and focuses on the hot, silky weight in his hand. Sherlock's still managing to make little whimpers around the improvised gag, and from the pitch and frequency of them John can tell it's not going to be long now. He redoubles his efforts, fingers curling tightly around the shaft of Sherlock's cock as he uses the motion of his own hips to push him through the circle of his hand. With a few more thrusts, Sherlock lets out a bellow that's barely muffled at all and throws his head back, and John can feel the cock in his hand twitching as the liquid heat of Sherlock's orgasm spills out over them both.

Gently letting go of his lover's groin, John grips Sherlock by both hips and furiously thrusts his cock deeper and deeper, letting out a few low grunts of his own. In no time at all his balls are feeling so tight they might explode and the edges of his vision are starting to dim. He buries himself entirely in Sherlock one last time and leans forward, his face resting in the taller man's shoulder as the violence of his own orgasm finally hits him, his hips thrusting reflexively a few last times as he grinds into the soft flesh of Sherlock's arse.

He gives himself a moment to recover and slowly draws himself out, nuzzling Sherlock's back before leaning up and pulling away completely. John leans against a wall, panting heavily as he composes himself. He slips the condom off carefully and knots it before tossing it into a conveniently placed trash bin and turns to Sherlock, who looks completely and utterly debauched. The bowtie is still clamped between his teeth and there's come all over his slowly softening prick as well as the hem of his shirt. He spits the tie out and with a mischievous glint in his heavy-lidded eyes, uses it to wipe himself off as thoroughly as he can before balling it back up and stuffing it into the pocket of John's rumpled trousers. "There's no way I can go back in there wearing that, it's a mess." John glares at him but can't find the energy to argue. No tie at all is still better than an undone one.

They finish getting dressed and try to tidy themselves up as much as possible, Sherlock buttoning his jacket over the ruined shirt but both of them giving up their hair as a lost cause. They saunter back to the ballroom, attempting to be discreet, but the host has been expecting them.

"Oh, hello Mycroft. Fabulous party you're having here. John and I were just discussing what a lovely time we're both having."

Mycroft shoots a withering glance at his brother, fixating on the livid plum circle on his throat, and then gazes sideways at John. John himself is nearly the same colour as the mark, but he does his best to meet Mycroft's eyes. "Glad you boys are…" he pauses a moment, searching for the right word, "enjoying yourselves."


End file.
